


sacrificium

by SomeRainMustFall



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crying, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Knives, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Restraints, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: Sacrificed to an ancient god is, surprisingly, not a way Malcolm pictured himself going out.xWhumptober2020 Days 9,10,11Ritual Sacrifice | Blood Loss | Crying
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	sacrificium

**Author's Note:**

> Most of my Whumptober stuff so far is drabbles I kinda feel are too short for AO3, so I've been posting them on my tumblr [here](https://asmolwhumper.tumblr.com/) if you wanna check them out! I do have a few other, longer ones like this that I'll be posting here, though. Pls enjoy ^3^

Malcolm trusts Gil. He trusts his team. He knows, nearly without a doubt, that they're going to find him.

But tied to a stone table in the middle of the woods, with a masked, admittedly _terrifying_ group holding torches in a circle around him and _chanting,_ low, like a hum, the words incomprehensible to him, likely in another language…

He's starting to worry that they're not going to find him _alive_.

And sacrificed to an ancient god is, surprisingly, not a way he pictured himself going out. Maybe he should have broadened his criteria.

“Oh, but isn’t it all a bit poetic, my boy?” his father whispers in his ear, and with his bindings as tight as they are, all four of his limbs stretched out towards the corresponding corner, he can do nothing more to get away than jerk his head to the side. 

It doesn’t stop him, because of course it doesn’t. He leans over Malcolm, smiling, and says, “You’ve always wondered how my patients felt, under my knife...waiting to die. Don’t tell me you can’t see the charm in finally getting to know…” 

He sighs. The chanting gets a little louder. “Of course, I’m sure Gil won’t feel the same when he has to roll your naked, lifeless corpse off this rock…”

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he looks again his father has been replaced with a man with a covered face, just like the rest. In the hours it's been, none of them have ever taken the masks off. He was blindfolded at some point, and definitely blacked out at another, but he's never seen the face of their killer. Soon to be _his_ killer.

It's unnerving. Malcolm can't profile someone he can't see. It’s a weakness that’s never been so exploited.

"Malcolm Bright."

“...Yes?” Malcolm asks, quite kindly. “Have you thought about what I said?”

Said...managed to gasp out in desperate rushes while they were ‘cleansing’ him by beating him with _sticks_ and then nearly drowning him in a nearby stream...it doesn't matter if it works. They can change. Everyone can change. They can, at least, _perhaps_ , not kill him tonight.

The man ignores him. Malcolm supposes he would have been surprised if he didn't.

“Malcolm Bright, you have been placed in our path—”

“Well, _technically_ you kidnapped me from _mine_ …"

“—as a test of faith, for us to show our loyalty, our love, for our god. You are cleansed—”

“Actually, I’m covered in mud now…”

Someone’s hand slams over his mouth so hard it hurts, busts his lip against his teeth and makes his vision shake, and to be rendered in an even further stage of helplessness makes him want to scream.

The man continues to talk as he starts to round the table. “You are ready. The ritual can begin, and then the ritual can end.”

Without warning a blade slices deep into his wrist, and he cries out. Two more hands hold his head steady, leaving him unable to look up and see the damage. 

The chanting is hurting his ears, now. He still can’t understand what they’re saying. His wrist throbs, and his fingers are starting to tingle, and he worries just how much blood he’s losing despite knowing damn well it won’t matter in a few minutes, anyway. 

“Oh, dear,” Martin murmurs, sounding more distant than he did. “That looks a bit bad…”

The man returns to his side at last. There’s a small wooden bowl in his grasp, and Malcolm’s stomach lurches. The hands holding him still and silent leave, and he gasps for air.

“Malcolm Bright…” the man says, and then starts to speak in what’s _definitely_ another language, one Malcolm’s never heard. He dips two fingers into the bowl, and nausea washes over Malcolm as they come back red, coated with his own blood. When they touch down on his bare, heaving chest, starting to paint over him with his own life, and it’s still _warm_ , Malcolm can’t stop himself from being sick, turning his head to spit up bile and more creek water.

“Stay still, Malcolm Bright.” A line is wiped away with a cold, wet cloth, and then the design is continued. “We’ve not much time left until the moon is positioned right.”

More out of shock than obedience, Malcolm does. Fairly quickly, he realizes he can’t feel his hand at all anymore. He’s starting to feel an uncomfortable, aching exhaustion creeping up on him. There's an odd, tingling itch in the middle of his chest, like anxiety, and yet not like it at all. 

He’s bleeding out. They’re just... _letting_ him. Maybe it won’t be the dramatic moment he’d expected. Maybe they’ll just let him fade away. He’s not sure which he’d prefer.

“You’re weak,” Martin whispers. “You think yourself so brave, my boy...but you’re scared. You think Gil would be proud of you like this? Stuck here, doing _nothing?_ Waiting to die? Might as well be begging for your life."

"I won't beg," Malcolm mutters. The man above him hums, drawing another line, this one straight down the middle of his chest.

"It would do nothing if you did. This is not something you can escape."

He raises the bowl above Malcolm's face, tilts it, and lets a bit of the blood drizzle onto Malcolm's forehead. Malcolm flinches once, then again when the man rubs it into his skin with a thumb. 

It's cold, now.

He's cold. Starting to shiver despite the sweat running off his body in rivulets.

His body is going to be cold, soon, too.

"Does it frighten you?" the man asks. Someone takes the bowl from him, replacing it with a thick dagger. "To be this close to the end?"

Malcolm doesn't answer. Maybe he can't. His heart is pounding, fluttering in his chest.

"You should be honored. To be an offering to them is the greatest gift anyone can be given."

He steps back. He nods at someone. 

And then, the arm that feels like it's been frozen is suddenly on fire, burning, _sizzling,_ and Malcolm screams, the sound echoing through the treetops. He looks up, and finds they've pressed something metal against the wound they made, cauterizing it.

"You will only bleed from here, now." The man presses the end of the dagger to the middle of the design, right at Malcolm's heart. It's a light prick, but Malcolm feels like he’s already been stabbed. He would have preferred to bleed. He starts to pant harder, and the man starts to chant along with the others.

"You d-don't have to do this…" Malcolm says, and Martin scoffs.

"I thought you weren't going to beg…"

" _Shut up_. Hey, listen to me! Don't do this!"

Louder voices, _louder_ , and then—

Sudden, nearly complete silence. Malcolm finds he can’t even breathe with how suffocating it is.

"Take your last breath, Malcolm Bright."

The man raises the dagger up above his head. The blade glints in the moonlight, and, against his will, overcome with the sudden terror of the impending end, Malcolm sobs, _"Please—"_

A gunshot echoes. Blood spatters over Malcolm from the man as he reels backwards then falls.

There's a _lot_ of noise, all at once. It startles the hell out of him. Even when they were torturing him, they never raised their voices, and now there’s shouting, so much _shouting,_ several more gunshots _—_ Malcolm's head hurts too much to even attempt to keep up with it all. He shuts his eyes tight, wheezing, not entirely sure it's really over until—

"Kid!"

"Gil," he whimpers, and offers a weak smile as, through tilted vision, he sees Gil hovering over him. "Cut that k-kinda close, didn't you…?"

Gil scowls, shrugging off his jacket to lay over Malcolm before starting to cut him free one limb at a time. Only, Malcolm can't feel _any_ of them, can't get them to move even when they're able to. He can only roll his head to the side, and barely that.

Gil looks terrified, cupping his face. "Stay with me, c'mon. Hey! I need those medics!" 

"'m fine…" Malcolm manages, but he wouldn’t pull away even if he could. Gil's hands are so warm...and he hadn't realized just _how_ cold he is until now. "L-lost blood...uh...lot of it, I think, b-but…'m not bleedin' anymore…"

“That's still one hell of a burn, kid…"

“‘m _fine…_ ”

"Oh yeah, you look great. Is this…" He stares down at Malcolm's chest, not even bothering to hide his disgust. "God, is this—"

"M-m-my blood…? Ha…”

" _Christ_ , it’s everywhere...hey, Malcolm—kid? Look at me."

He hadn't realized he'd looked away. He blinks hard, focusing back on Gil, but his vision is swimming, and behind Gil's head the sky is swirling hypnotically. "There's s-so many stars…" 

"Yeah?" Gil glances up, but only for a second. Not long enough to see them, appreciate them. Malcolm's never seen so many…

“‘s pretty…G-Gil, I don’t feel…”

"You're gonna be okay, Bright. I promise."

He’s not so sure right now. He feels sick. He feels like he’s going to have nightmares about this all for _months_ , if he does survive. "G-gonna...f-faint, I think…"

"Try not to, Bright. Focus on my voice."

"'s a n-nice voice…"

That gets a tired laugh out of Gil. "Thank you, kid. Keep talking, okay? Gonna get you outta here soon."

"Is he...dead?" 

Gil spares a glance down at his feet, nose wrinkled. "No."

"What...about…"

"No one's dead, Bright. But you almost were.”

"Oh, and wouldn't that have been just _awful?_ " his father asks, flicking beside his ear, and Malcolm groans, barely hearing Gil as he speaks again.

“How about you shake it up a little and think about yourself, huh?"

"Boss!" 

"JT," Gil hisses as Malcolm wrestles with the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, "where are the _medics?"_

"Right behind. _Damn_ that was a hike. Hey, Bright…" He peers down into Malcolm's line of sight. "How you holdin' up?"

Still conscious enough to feel uncomfortable, Malcolm says, "I'm n-naked."

"Uh...yeah. I can see that."

"U-unsee it, please."

JT snorts. He turns his back, but stays there, stays close, just in case. Gil adjusts his jacket over Malcolm to cover him a little better, and strokes his hand through Malcolm's hair. Things are starting to fall away. The tension, too, thankfully, because he's not going to die. Not tonight. Not yet. 

"Hey…" Gil wipes a thumb beside his eye. "Don't cry…"

"Th-thought…" He chokes, swallowing hard. He wishes he’d stayed afraid, if that’s what it took to keep himself from breaking like this. But he’s not afraid, anymore. He’s just...he’s just... "I thought I was gonna…"

"Oh, kid." He runs his sleeve over Malcolm's forehead to get rid of as much blood as he can, then presses his lips down against it. "You're safe now. I promise." 

He nods, but the tears keep coming, anyway. Martin calls him pathetic, tells him Gil is ashamed of him, but Gil's eyes are full of love, nothing else. Gil shushes him, soothes him, tells him it's okay until the medics arrive. 

Even as they’re touching him, asking him questions he can’t answer because he can barely hear them at all, he can't stop his eyes from closing. When he blinks again, he's moving, on his back on a stretcher that's being carried through the woods. 

He was dragged through these just hours before. He remembers how badly it made his legs burn, how out of breath he became. He feels terrible that he forced so many of them to make it themselves, just to save his life, and then to top it off made them carry him on the return.

“Sorry…” he says, because he just doesn’t have the strength to change that. Someone takes his hand as it flops over the side, but with no source of light but the flashlights pointed down at the ground, occasionally swiping over nearby trees, he can’t see who. 

"Gil…?" 

"You're good, Bright.” Not Gil. Dani. Of course. Her hand feels different than Gil’s. It’s smaller. Soft. It’s a touch he doesn’t usually feel, but that he’d like to feel more of, he thinks. "He's just ahead. Almost there.”

He drifts again. He's being loaded into the back of an ambulance with one blink, and with another the bus is in motion. There's an oxygen mask over his face, cold air soothing his aching lungs, and, vaguely, he can feel a hand gripping his own again. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and Gil squeezes them gently.

"You with me?" 

"Dunno…" he mumbles. It's too bright. He'd rather be seeing the stars instead of the ceiling. But there's a thick blanket over him, now, covering him completely, and he's a little warmer than he was. "Kinda…”

"Your blood pressure's low, but they said you're going to be okay. Stopping the bleeding when they did saved your life."

Saved by the ones who wanted so badly to kill him...spared by yet _another_ killer when he knows he never should have been spared by the first. "'m sorry, Gil...p-promise. They jus'...took me. Didn't go to 'em. Tried to...c-call you...they hit me, I...”

"I know. You did everything right, Malcolm. This wasn't your fault. I'm not upset, kid. I'm just...goddamn, I'm glad you're alive. That was too close. If we'd been a second later…"

He breathes in shakily. He rubs over his face, and then brings Malcolm's hand to his chest. 

"Thank you," Malcolm whispers. "They...w-weren't nice."

"I can imagine.”

He wouldn’t want to. Malcolm doesn’t want to have lived it. He turns his head, trying to shake himself, but his eyes close again anyway. Maybe it's better if he sleeps. "S-sorry...so tired…”

"That's okay. Just a few minutes from the hospital now.” 

“D-don’t...don’t let them sedate me, Gil...please…he’s…”

“Hey. Relax. I’m here. You’re safe. No sedatives. Saline and medicine.” Gil’s other hand goes through his hair again, relaxing him just a little more. “You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.” 

" _You did good, kid_ ," Martin mocks, pitching his voice obnoxiously high enough to make Malcolm wince. "Liar. You know he’s lying, don’t you, my boy?

Malcolm ignores him. He focuses on the feeling of Gil’s hand, of the breath still going in and out of him. He’s alive. He’s okay.

“You could have made _me_ proud.”

In and out. Alive and okay.

“You could have ended them.”

In, out. Alive, _okay_.

“He’s what?” Gil asks, quietly. Malcolm realizes his expression must give away his distress, but he doesn’t bother doing anything about it now. “He’s here?”

“Tell him, Malcolm. Tell him the truth. _Tell him.”_

Malcolm forces a smile, and shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “‘m fine, Gil.”

Gil squeezes his hand. The ambulance turns, slowing as it pulls up to the ER.

In, out.

Alive. 


End file.
